For The Ones We Leave Behind
by 22 Umbrellas
Summary: "It's what she's always wanted—to be the Queen B—but she doesn't think she knows how to anymore." AU Dan/Blair in a dystopian future.
1. Prologue

Full Summary: In a dystopian future, New York City has become a ghost of its former self, barely recognizable. Economic class divisions have been obliterated, written language has been outlawed, and major life decisions are now predetermined by a faceless entity known only as GG. Instead of proper names, newborns are assigned a Class Number and a Letter of the alphabet. In Class 1111, D dreams of becoming the new "Archivist," a prestigious career assignment that will finally allow him the rare opportunity to write freely without fear of repercussions, but when he gets his wish, the past slowly comes to light and the cracks in their perfect little world begin to deepen and grow. Dan/Blair, Serena, Chuck.

Disclaimer: I don't own Gossip Girl. I also don't own the countless dystopian, futuristic, and fantastical works of literature and film that I shamelessly culled inspiration from, most primarily Lois Lowry's _The Giver_, Ray Bradbury's _Fahrenheit 451_, Richard Powers' _Galatea 2.2_, Aldous Huxley's _Brave New World_, George Orwell's _1984_, Neal Shusterman's _The Dark Side of Nowhere_, Mark Dunn's _Ella Minnow Pea_, Kazuo Ishiguro's _Never Let Me Go_, Mary Karr's poem "Winter in the City of Friendship," Matt Groening's _Futurama_, Andrew Niccol's _Gattaca_, Lucile Hadzihalilovic's _Innocence_, and Patrick Wolf's song "The City."

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><p><strong>I. Prologue<strong>

i.

This is a story about a great many things:

The inexorable future of a city that never sleeps. The flawed workings of a society governed by senseless rules. A rusty old typewriter that holds the remnants of written language in its keys. A secret underground tunnel that leads us to our past.

It's a story about an elusive and all-seeing dictator known only by the initials TPTB, and the faceless handmaiden who weaves riddles from the threads of our indiscretions and calls herself GG.

But most importantly, this is also a story about an ordinary girl and an ordinary boy. A story about two people who fight and bicker with one another—trading insults like Cabbage Patch accessories—from the beginnings of childhood, who both scorn the other's existence, despite being told that their futures _are_ each other, and that someday they will get married to each other and have their own children, so that the whole cycle can start all over again.

This is really a story about them: this ordinary girl and this ordinary boy—known to their peers as B and D—who risk everything in an attempt to do the extraordinary.

ii.

Their society is divided into Classes of twenty-six people each. Newborns are assigned letters at birth, starting with A, then B, and C, all the way down to Z, after which a new Class is created and it begins once again from the top, rinse and repeat. On their 18th birthdays, they'll be allowed to adopt a proper name from a list of pre-approved choices, but until then, they're nothing more than a series of letters from the alphabet. These letters are a way of stripping away their individuality and their personalities, a way of making them more alike, more _the same_. In the process—and this is an unfortunate side effect—it also becomes a way of making them less human.

In the Classroom, the alphabet is one of the first things they learn. They even learn how to read, but books are scarce and it isn't encouraged. They are never taught how to write, how to construct and spell out words and sentences from the letters at their disposal. Nevertheless, some children will always have the natural inclination to do so. In this life, there are several fates for such individuals. Only one of these could be considered a happy ending. Maybe even none.

Great things were always expected of their Class. 1111 is a potent number; everyone says so. But from the very beginning, plans go awry. First, A is born premature, sickly and feather-light at a mere four pounds. As a result, she is ready to be delivered before B, who was originally conceived to be the leader—the Queen—of the new Class. Instead, B has to settle for second best. And from there on out, the inauspicious events only multiply.

B is everything her parents and the others dreamed of when she first enters the world: fists balled and eyes shut, sandy brown hair already growing out in wispy waves, to darken and lengthen over time. With permanent ink unseen by the naked eye, the nurses mark the inside of her wrist with her basic information (Letter, Class Number, Family Jewel) so she can always be identified, as we all are, like branded cattle.

Next comes C, with a whispery wail that fills the delivery room when he exits his mother's womb. His is a difficult birth, rife with complications. Even now, the human body is still an unpredictable vessel in need of oxygen and a regular heartbeat. For a few tense hours, the doctors worry that both lives, the mother and the child, will be lost. But somehow the baby pulls through. He survives.

And then there is D, the infant with the dark, untamable curls and bottomless eyes. They can't help but notice how the fingers of his left hand curl lazily inward, thumb meeting the inner curve of his index finger, as if he were already holding an imaginary pencil. It isn't long before his parents begin to worry about his future. It isn't long before GG, who watches in isolation from an unknown location, begins to take a special interest in him.

iii.

None of the living can remember the city when it was just New York.

They can't remember the skyscrapers that seemed larger than life, the interconnecting subway lines that ran in a tangle of crisscrossing passages underground, or those five boroughs and the bridges, prejudices, and arbitrary lines that separated them. Now the sun hangs impossibly high, illuminating the outdoors in a perpetual, golden glow. The squat buildings, with their domed ceilings and dark windows, barely cast a shadow.

This place was alive once. It was fluid and ever-changing; it told stories without speaking. The city moved—bright lights in every direction, the horns and squealing tires of traffic playing its own kind of symphony. You could brush past people of any shape or color or origin while walking down the busy streets, on your way to the Met, or MoMA, or the Walter Reade. The Statue of Liberty watched over the city; the silhouette of the Empire State Building was iconic and recognizable from miles away. At the New York Public Library, you could find the archival materials of yesteryear: newspaper articles, sound recordings, artifacts, and diaries.

It isn't that way now.

Everything they know of their history now, they know from urban legends and old censored films and the few books that TPTB didn't burn. In other words, they know almost nothing. There are no Polaroid cameras, no smartphones, no way to capture motion on film. If someone sees something beautiful and awe-inspiring—something he wants to remember—he hopes his memory is enough because it's all he's got. The past leaves few fingerprints on a present that is disconcertingly sterile and pristine.

But some things haven't changed. Every year, the old still die while the young are born anew. Every year, we lose a little bit more: history slips through the cracks in the pavement like coins that tumble from our pockets without our knowing, never to pass through our fingers again. Instead, the loose change sinks further and further into the depths of the planet to mingle with the bones and ash of our ancestors, the dead who might gape in horror at what has become of us. With each passing year, the earth's soil becomes richer and richer, wealthier even than the families that once occupied the penthouses on the Upper East Side.

Meanwhile, our heads empty out like jack-o-lanterns the morning after Halloween, in the days when people still knew of Halloween: the wick of the candle burnt and blackened, the flame long gone.

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><p>AN: Okay, so bits and pieces of this story have been sitting on my computer for possibly 9 or 10 months. It's been kind of a challenge to write and I suppose I'll never be entirely satisfied with it so I'm just going to start posting it. I've never really written anything dystopian before (fanfic or otherwise) and I don't know if anyone else will find it interesting or if it's too much of a stretch for a GG fic. But please do leave comments/questions if you have them; I would love to know your thoughts!


	2. B is for Byzantine

A/N: First of all, I want to thank everyone who reviewed/favorited/alerted after I posted the prologue. As I said, I really didn't know if people would go for it, so I'm glad to see people intrigued by the concept and premise. Hopefully you'll still be interested after the plot gets moving in this installment!

A couple things: while this story focuses mostly on Dan, Blair, Serena, and Chuck (as well as an original character you will see soon), a lot of the other people that make up the world of Gossip Girl will make appearances, sometimes in slightly different forms. For the purposes of this story, Rufus isn't married to Allison and Eleanor isn't married to Harold because the fact is their letters just don't match up. Dorota is still a large part of Blair's life, but since a Polish maid wouldn't make sense in the scenario I've set up, she is instead Eleanor's younger sister and her chosen name is Dorothea.

Warnings (for this and later chapters): disordered eating, self-mutilation, drug abuse. Dark themes and heavy subject matter in general. Nothing too explicit, but please proceed with caution if you are triggered by these types of things.

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><p><em>Byzantine<em> |ˈbizənˌtēn; bəˈzan-; -ˌtīn|  
>adjective<br>• (of a system or situation) excessively complicated, typically involving a great deal of administrative detail  
>• characterized by deviousness or underhanded procedure<p>

**II. B is for Byzantine**

i.

Rule 1: There can only be one Archivist at any given time.

Rule 2: A new Archivist is chosen every fifty years or so.

Rule 3: Archivists do not marry; they do not have children.

Rule 4: After they finish school, archivists live in isolation at an undisclosed location.

Rule 5: Archivists are the ones who record and write our histories, the ones who make sure we don't disappear when we die.

…

They're thirteen years old when the rumors start circulating, sixteen when they actually become a reality. The official announcement comes courtesy of GG, as if it were one of her usual gossip blasts: _Attention New New Yorkers, do I have a secret to share with you! The new Archivist has been chosen and tomorrow you will hear the first clue. Can anybody guess who? You know you love me, GG._

Not everyone wants to be The Archivist. In fact, some are terrified they will somehow be chosen in an egregious error, and they do whatever they can to avoid standing out during the selection process. Many prefer to stay in the background, to blend in with the rest of society, surrounded by people. Others just want to live a "normal" life, even if it's one that was planned for them. And still others simply have never had the desire to write.

Being the Archivist means responsibility and sacrifice.

Sure, in exchange for their dedication they reap the rewards: a typewriter and a bottomless supply of paper and ink. For those children who always loved words and itched to put them to paper, this is their only chance. If they perform their duties to TPTB's satisfaction, they are permitted to write whatever they want in their free time. And with dictatorial approval, these writings may even be bound into a book and shared with the rest of the community. But the truth is, an audience matters very little for most of these individuals, who have had a passion for storytelling since they began their schooling. They just want to write. For them, being the Archivist means the prospect of a bright future. It means not going crazy in a mental institution, and not ending up in prison for violating one of the community's strictest rules.

But B wrinkles her nose in distaste when the news first comes in. "Who wants a rusty old _typewriter_ anyway?" she says loudly, knowing perfectly well who does.

They all see the faded photograph. It's a frightening mechanism, a monstrous mass of interconnected metal parts: gauges and dials and switches in dull grays and eggshell whites. She can't help thinking that something about it looks _dangerous_. That in the hands of the wrong person, that _thing_ could be their undoing. Even so, she finds it beautiful in a twisted sort of way. Her hands reach out involuntarily, aching to touch one of the levers. The letter A is on a button to the left… and B, of course, there on the bottom, C next to it, and above that, a D… But she pushes the thoughts out of her head almost immediately after they enter. After a few moments, she realizes her hands are hanging awkwardly in mid-air and she quickly uses them to smooth her hair down.

They're always watching. She knows that by now.

ii.

As always, TPTB remains a mystery.

This much is obvious: They are the ones who make the rules, who give the orders. They are the ones who are always watching.

That's all people really know. Everyone has a theory about what the letters stand for, or what they mean. _Toilet Paper, Toilet Bowl_, N jokes in a loud whisper, snickering and looking furtively around for the cameras before bowing his head. _The Problem Truth Brings. Trusting People Takes Balls._

B rolls her eyes at all of the speculation and ensuing silliness. As a child, she always dreamt that TPTB were in actuality an exclusive group of four ordinary people (two T's, a P, and a B, naturally) who had been selected to join the group after their respective graduations, as opposed to being placed in the usual mundane jobs. "I'm going to be the B in TPTB someday," she used to tell people.

S would try to remind her that their careers would be chosen for them when they finished with school, and to their knowledge nobody had ever been invited to become one of the powerful elite: "I just don't want you to be disappointed, B. I mean, we don't even know what TPTB is." She sounded so sincere and genuinely concerned for her friend. But B knew she didn't really understand.

As the years pass, it hardly seems to matter anymore. Those were the days of lofty goals and impossible dreams. When B was younger, she thought she could do anything. Now things have changed. A is gone. B is expected to take over as the Class leader. It's what she's always wanted—to be the Queen B—but she doesn't think she knows how to anymore.

iii.

_Attention New New Yorkers, and_ _Good Morning, Class 1111_. A disembodied voice greets them at the start of every day, words emanating from a speaker at the front of the Classroom. After a few years, they come to know that tantalizing voice truly well. GG teases them with gossip about broken rules and secret alliances, always in her trademark riddles or rhymes or clever wordplay. She seems to know everything about their lives and she's willing to spill so that the whole city knows too.

Some like that the dirt she dishes helps keep them on the straight and narrow. Others wear GG mentions like a merit badges on their blazers, as if they are something to be proud of.

B falls somewhere in the middle, depending on her mood. Either way, she can't help but notice that certain incidents involving herself continue to go unnoticed every time the feed comes in each morning.

For reasons unknown, D is hardly ever mentioned at all.

iv.

On the first Sunday of every month, everyone in 1111 is required to attend the appropriate Letter Party. These gatherings are TPTB's way of fostering a sense of community between residents of all ages who share the same Letter, including those adults who have long since aged out and chosen a proper name for themselves. The idea is that they should serve as mentors for the ones who are young, still floundering and trying to find their way.

There are about a million reasons B hate these parties. First of all, B's are bad company in general. They are bitter and jealous types. Bitter because of how close they were to being on the top of the Class, jealous because _she_ made it to the top anyway, after the unfortunate circumstances surrounding A's departure.

But mostly she hates the parties because it means Dorothea, her mother's younger sister, is always teasing her about D. B often thinks of the woman as a second mother. After all, Dorothea was practically the one who raised B when Eleanor was working long hours at office every night, away from home.

"Mister D is growing into such a charming and intelligent young man," Dorothea says nonchalantly after each party. "Very handsome now, too. Not so goofy-looking anymore. Don't you think, Miss B?"

And B sets her mouth in a firm line and tries her best not to lose her composure. "_No_, I don't, Dorothea. You _know_ that. Out of all the people at that party, why must you always insist on talking about _him_?"

Dorothea responds simply by raising her eyebrows. "Fine, Miss B. I will not mention him any longer." But then she nods and gives B a knowing smile, and a month later it is more of the same again: "I spoke to Mister D again tonight. You want to hear what he told me?"

After a while, B gives up trying to reason with her aunt, just tunes her out and doesn't try to protest.

v.

Naturally, S is the one who then bears the brunt of B's frustration with D.

"How could anyone ever think that he and I would be a good match! I can't even put into words how _absurd_ it is. He's just…he has to have a _theory_ about _everything_ and I swear to _God_ he never shuts up," she complains, full of pent-up rage. "You've been in Class with him. Just imagine all that"—she sticks out her tongue and makes hand motions like words flying out at an alarming rate—"all that, times…times infinity!"

S laughs lightly like she's heard it all a hundred times, and she probably has. Her eyes crinkle into half-moons that mirror her easy smile.

"What?" B snaps, pouting a little. "It's true, and it's not funny. You're my _best friend._ I thought you were supposed to be on my side."

"I am," S says with a hint of amusement. "You don't have to get all worked up about it. Anyway, so what if he's different from most guys? I think he's sweet."

"Oh, really?" B scoffs. "No, of _course_ you do. You would, with the way he used to follow you around like a little puppy dog."

"B!"

"Anyway, I guess you'd rather be with him then. Well! You obviously have _my_ blessing." She laughs, a little too loudly.

"You know that's not the way it works," S says, her voice soft, grin fading.

But B barrels on, as if she hasn't heard: "It's not like I would miss all those afternoons of _forced_ conversation,"—she laughs at the mere thought of it—"while he babbles his way through whatever _ridiculous_ notions enter his head, nevermind that no one cares or even understands what on _Earth_ he's going on about, and why should _I_ be the one—"

"B," S interrupts finally, "seriously, calm down. You act as if being with him causes you physical pain."

B glares at her, a spark in her eyes that could set fire to us all. "No, of course not." She pauses. "This is even _worse._"

vi.

She would never admit this to anyone, but sometimes she wishes she could be more like S. She would love to be carefree with a perpetually sunny disposition: the kind of girl who walks through a windstorm and emerges without a strand of corn-silk hair out of place. In a way, S is a contradiction. Somehow, some way, she straddles the thin line that separates worldliness and childlike innocence. She doesn't even seem to notice the effect she has on people, which makes it hard for B to stay mad at her for long.

S is what most people would probably call a wild child in the old days. She is the exact opposite of B: she swallows the rules and regulations that TPTB feed her, she accepts the world they live in and the fact that her destiny is predetermined, but that doesn't mean she isn't going to rebel and have a little fun. It doesn't mean she isn't going to spit out the pills that they're all supposed to take daily, the ones that are designed to make them feel numb in every possible way—mentally, emotionally, sexually.

"So what was it like? Not taking the pills? I mean, why is it so important that we take them every day?" B's fingers toy with the fork in her hand as she pushes the food around on her plate and she tries her best to sound nonchalant but her breath catches in her throat mid-sentence and it sounds like a lie, even to herself. There was a time when she could convince herself of anything, no matter how outrageous and unbelievable. She isn't sure when that changed.

But S only shrugs, in that lazy way that suggests she really is indifferent. Nothing fazes her. "I don't know, B. It's hard to explain." But she searches for the words anyway: She tries to describe how she feels off-balance. She tries to describe the current that runs through her core like a jolt of electricity. The way her body hums with anticipation. Anticipation of what, she isn't certain. She stumbles over her words when she talks about the rushes of sadness and happiness and anger, the mood swings that they were never taught how to handle. And she talks about her future husband, the one who was picked out for her years ago when she was a baby, before the umbilical cord had even been severed. They've never been taught how to talk about this—about feelings or desires or the everyday things that simply can't be translated into words. "It was like I woke up," S says slowly. "Like I'd been asleep a really long time and I finally woke up." She hesitates. "And suddenly I wanted to touch him. I felt like I wanted to—" S sighs and clasps her hands together, intertwining her fingers, because she doesn't know how else to describe it—"I wanted us to—" and she shrugs in lieu of a proper conclusion to her story. "That's what it was like."

B continues to eat as S talks, sloppy and fervent bites that would probably worry S if she weren't so distracted by her own story. B doesn't know why the words make her so hungry. And she doesn't know why the food isn't making the hunger go away. "So what happened exactly?" If her eyes are expectant, if S can see how curious she is, she no longer cares. She is the exact opposite of S because unlike S, she lies in the darkness every night and questions this society's leaders and rules and their fabricated histories. But she would never stop taking those pills. The truth is, she has become too fond of not feeling.

S looks away for a brief moment, as if she is embarrassed. S is never embarrassed. "We…you know, we kissed." She unlaces her fingers and brings her hands together so that only her fingertips are touching.

B has seen two people kiss one another, but only in the films she knows she probably isn't supposed to be watching. Even when her parents do it, as she assumes they do, it is behind closed doors. And so she makes a face at S's gesture. "That's gross."

S purses her lips. "Are you sure you want me to tell you all of this?" The more she describes that forbidden encounter, the more outrageous it seems. "What do you and D usually do together anyway?" she asks, knowing it will open a can of worms, another endless diatribe that how incompatible B and D are, and how irritating his incessant chatter is, and how he could really, really use a haircut.

"Nothing," is all B says. "We hate each other, remember? We don't do anything together." She dabs at her mouth with a white napkin. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to use the restroom." She hurries out of the room without so much as a glance at S.

…

Inside the empty room with tiled walls, B twists the knob of the sink faucet to the left until she hears a rush of water, and she stares at her reflection in the mirror. She wears one hand around her throat like a necklace, her thumb and middle finger reaching to find the pulse at either side of her neck, her palm against the hollow below her throat. She breathes in, she breathes out, and then in again. Her heart pounds inside her chest. She doesn't twist the knob in the other direction before turning her back to her own face.

When B enters the toilet stall, she slides the latch into place until she hears its satisfying click, metal meeting metal. It's the sound of being locked inside, the sound of being in control, the sound of being in a safe place. She looks to the ceiling before pulling back her hair and dropping to her knees.

The water runs for a long time.

vii.

At night, lying in bed under the covers, B thinks back to the scene that S described, but substitutes D and herself in their places instead. "Gross," she repeats to no one, "just gross." Not only the kissing but the fact that she is imagining it, and with D of all people. She doesn't know why. What she does know is that she spends the rest of the night trying to purge the image from her mind. If only it were as easy as sticking a finger down her throat.

And so she thinks back further: she starts to rearrange letters in her head the way D used to during Class, putting people into groups according to the words their letters formed together. S-C-A-B. S-A-D. B-E-D. B-A-D. But that makes her think of A, which makes her think of C, which makes her think of D again, and it's all too much right now so she covers her eyes with her open hands like that will make it go away.

…

The next morning, she wakes up late, her bare legs tangled in the sheets, and she doesn't quite remember her dreams. All she hears is her best friend's voice reverberating in her head like a distant echo: _What do you and Dan usually do together, anyway?_

vii.

Mostly, they watch movies. Her father has a whole stash of them locked away in the attic. These are old VHS tapes with the muddy ribbons inside that seem to go on forever, hidden in their unwieldy and unattractive plastic shells, the moving pictures and sounds unwinding and then winding again on the other side. And all they have to do is press play. She's pretty sure most of the titles are outlawed now, but they take the risk in an attempt fill the silence that wells up between them. They take the risk so they don't have to talk, so they aren't constantly aware of the other's close proximity, and how that makes them feel. Or even the fact that it makes them feel anything at all.

The morning after, she always halfway expects a blast from GG to come through the feed (_Spotted: B and D spending their Quality Time together partaking in illegal substances_) but it never does. She always halfway expects TPTB to infiltrate the house and remove the tapes from her attic, but they never do.

Sometimes, she wonders why. But most of the time, she's just grateful that, for now at least, the private screenings remain their secret from the rest of the world. She would never admit it out loud, but she doesn't think there's anything she enjoys more. And the most troubling part, the part that she would never even admit silently, to her own self: she doesn't think those afternoons would be quite the same if she had to share them with someone else.

viii.

On the weekends, they wash dishes together. It doesn't make any practical sense, as she constantly points out to anyone who will listen. The dishwashers next to the sink work just as well, if not better. But according to TPTB, or GG—or whoever is supposedly watching, she doesn't even know anymore—these menial chores will prepare the two of them for their ever-impending domestic life together.

"I don't understand why we have to do this." B knows she complains about this every week, but she can't help it.

D doesn't reply, just gives her that warning look like he wants to stab her with a knife if she ever utters those words in his proximity again. "Who do you think the new Archivist will be?" he says instead, his voice straining to remain casual and nonchalant.

She snorts. "What, you still think it's going to be you?"

And then he's silent for a long minute, and he's looking down and biting his lip, and she wishes for just a moment that she hadn't been so harsh. "Yeah, maybe I do," he says in a quiet voice. "Why not? I mean, is it really such a crazy thought?"

Why not? _Because_, she thinks. Because they've talked about this before. They've talked about how Archivists don't get married. About how they spend the rest of their lives in isolation. About how their intended spouses are re-matched with someone else. In her case, there is a perfect candidate already waiting in the wings: C is alone. C has been alone since A left. And what situation could be more perfect considering the history between the three of them? But maybe she doesn't want that anymore. Maybe the thought of D leaving confuses her, and maybe the fact that it confuses her, confuses her even more. She never knows what to think anymore. But she doesn't say any of this aloud. "What makes you think you have what it takes to be _The Archivist_?" she says instead, her voice abrasive. "You're just like the rest of us. You've never _written _anything." She doesn't hesitate to point out that little fact, lest it has gotten lost in the ever-growing fog of his hopeless dreams. "And scratching _D loves S_ into the dirt with a fallen tree branch? Doesn't count." She scrubs the bottom of a frying pan until her knuckles turn bone-white and her joints start to ache.

Again he doesn't say anything, and if she didn't know any better, she might think she's hurt his feelings. She wishes she could take it back, if only to hear him _talk_ again, freely, like he can't stop the words from appearing, one after another. The way he used to. "Wait, how do you even know about—" he finally starts, but then stops, realizing it doesn't really matter how she knows. "It's not like that," he says instead, and it's not at all what she expects.

"_What_'s not like _what_?" She pounces on his cryptic statement immediately. Because arguing with him is better than the alternative. Because arguing with him is what's familiar. If she tries to decipher the implications of what he has just said, she'll be thrown into a world full of unknowns. Her shoulders tremble at the thought and she tries to distract him from noticing by launching into another diatribe. "See, this is what I mean, D. How can you be a writer if you pay no mind to _specificity_, to _clarity_?"

But he doesn't let her derail the conversation. Maybe he knows her too well and her face burns at the thought. "Me and S," he clarifies. "Why do you always have to bring it up? It isn't like that."

And she shakes her head at that. "It's always been like that. It'll always be like that." A pause. "Not just with you. With everybody. She can't even help it, _it's who she is_." The words are out before she knows it. She tries to take them back—sucks air into her mouth and swallows—but speech doesn't work that way.

"She was a childhood fascination. That's all." He turns his face towards hers, so that she can't escape those dark pools he has for eyes. She half expects him to go for the easy kill, to bring up her own questionable past, but he doesn't. He doesn't even mention C. Or N.

They don't speak for what seems like hours. The dish soap foams around their hands in a mountain of weightless bubbles, her fingers wrinkling like dried fruit.

He shakes his head in defeat. "Look, let's just finish these dishes, so we can go back to trying to ignore each other, okay?"

And she nods at that suggestion. For once, she doesn't argue with him.

…

_Why do you hate me so much?_ he asked her once, his serious tone startling her. _I mean, honestly. Why are we incapable of getting along?_

She brushed off the question like the answer was obvious. _Because we just don't _work _together. We have nothing in common_. And that was it. That was a good enough reason for her. End of story.

He nodded thoughtfully at that explanation. But then he said, _you know, you and S don't have anything in common either. And the two of you are best friends._

…

Sometimes she thinks that they hate each other more out of habit than anything else.

ix.

She tries to remember a time when they were still kids and she followed orders blindly and didn't question any of it.

Both A and C were constantly absent from Class, each with their own reasons. A often spent weeks at a time in hospitals, recovering from illnesses that sent her to the ER in the middle of the night. Even though the doctors administered tests and prescribed medications and were constantly changing her diet, she remained thin and frail, her immune system weak. As for C, it was clear that he had no interest in school. His father couldn't control him, and didn't try. And once GG realized that her attempts to humiliate him by airing out his dirty laundry every morning were futile, it seemed like she stopped trying too.

There is one memory B never forgets. It happened on a rare day when A was present, though not such a rare day that C was there in Class as well. In fact, the two of them seemed to coordinate their absences in a way that meant they were hardly ever seen together.

There was a lull of silence during the group project that they had been assigned when D suddenly spoke up.

_We're BAD together_, he said, looking up at the two girls.

A only stared at him, a look of confusion evident on her pale face.

B sighed with exasperation. _Just _what_ are you going on about now?_

_ The three of us. B—_he pointed at her_—and A—_he pointed at the other girl_—and me, D—_he tapped a finger at his own chest_. Bad._

B rolled her eyes, her patience waning. _What a fascinating observation, D_, she remembers saying through gritted teeth. _Can we get back to our assignment now?_

Maybe she was imagining things, but the half-smile on his face looked suspiciously like a smirk. _By all means, B. Why don't you lead the way, since you seem to think we would all be lost without you? _His eyes never left her face.

…

A week later, the new test results came back for A. According to the doctors, she had been diagnosed with leukemia. There was still no cure. That was the beginning of the end for them. Little by little, their foundation was crumbling.

x.

When the announcement is made, when GG finally tires of her riddles and games and D is handpicked to become the new Archivist, B lets out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Her throat tightens as he approaches her to say goodbye. "I guess we got what we both always wanted," she says.

His silence at those words startles her and she remembers that day, washing dishes at his place, when she had started to doubt. She swallows, tries again.

"We talked about this…right?" she says, her voice faltering a little. "I mean, you always said you wanted…and I wanted…we _both_ wanted…" She trails off.

He regards her with an unreadable expression on his face. "Right." He rubs the back of his neck in a nervous gesture. "We both did."

She wants to congratulate him for realizing his dreams, but all that comes out is a strangled cough. She clears her throat, her eyes pleading. For what, she doesn't know.

"Take care, B." He takes one last look at S—who is standing to the side, trying to hide the tears that she shouldn't be crying—before turning back to B and forcing a smile. "Just…take care."

And then the law enforcement brigade comes, in their regulation black clothing and their distinctive, wide-brimmed hats. She watches as they throw a burlap sack over D's head and lead him away. "This is a little excessive, isn't it?" B hears the uncertainty in his faint muffled voice as he speaks one last time, and then he's gone, the door closing behind him.

…

Nine months of summer training. He'll be back next spring, at least until they finish school and then he'll be gone for good. She feels a strange absence somewhere near the pit of her stomach, like a vital organ that has gone missing from her body without a trace. She doesn't know what to tell herself. Did she want it after all? Was she hoping that she would be the one chosen? Was she hoping that she was the special one? Or did she secretly not want him to leave? She chooses to stay in denial. She tells herself what she needs to.

A part of her already misses him when she sees his empty seat in Class the next day, but that's crazy and it makes no sense. The debilitating, yawning blackhole stretches wider and wider inside her body. And she starts to wonder too many things. She wonders why she can't pinpoint where exactly the hole is, and why her first impulse is to fill it with caviar and filet mignon and pumpkin pie. She wonders when the pills stopped working and when she started _feeling_ things that don't have names. She doesn't know the answer to any of those questions, and so she returns to the familiar: she asks to be excused and once again she seeks refuge in the only place she can. And she locks herself away.

* * *

><p>Reviews are always appreciated and loved! (And here's to hoping good things are in store for Dair in the 100th episode!)<p> 


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